


Bees for you, tea for me

by Caers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2013-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-05 00:41:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1087540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caers/pseuds/Caers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>John is six when they meet, but he never forgets it. How do you possibly forget the event that brings you the most important thing in your life?<br/></i>
</p>
<p>A life and friendship, told in flashbacks and present.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bees for you, tea for me

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my dearest beta, pulangaraw

He’s bent over Sherlock, trying to staunch the blood flow as best he can with what’s on hand. It’s not going to work, nothing you can do, whispers at the back of his mind but he’s not listening to that. If he can save a soldier in the middle of the desert he can save Sherlock in a warehouse in London. He can do this. He will not lose Sherlock, not now, not after all they’ve been through.

“John,” Sherlock manages. His face is too pale, sheened with sweat, his pale eyes unfocused. 

“Shut it,” John returns. “No dying declarations from you. Not yet.” He finishes tying off the remains of one of his sleeves around the gash on Sherlock’s chest and moves to the one on his arm. 

“John.” Sherlock’s voice is breathy, faint. His fingers twitch, and John takes a minute to reach up, squeeze his hand. “Always with me.”

“Always,” John promises, and pulls his hand away. 

Always.

*

John is six when they meet, but he never forgets it. 

Even though he’ll be told throughout his life that he can’t possibly recall, in detail, something that happened when he was so young; he just shrugs and feels no need to defend the memory. But how do you possibly forget the event that brings you the most important thing in your life?

He’s walking home from school with Mum, taking the shorter route by the canal because it’s cold and drizzly, and she’s stopped to have a few words with the butcher. He wanders out of the shop, “Johnny, be careful out there” in his ears, and crosses the narrow street to the canal. He squats down and grabs a nearby stick, uses it to dislodge soggy leaves at the bank, and watches them be swept off. There’s a sound from across the canal and he looks up to see another boy stood there, watching him intently. 

Black hair under a cap, dressed in dark clothes, and a dark blue coat. Staring at John with a frown. 

“Hallo,” John calls across the water, smiling. He’s never seen this boy around the village before. Someone new? He likes meeting new people. His smile falters when the boy doesn’t answer. “I’m John,” he adds. 

The boy approaches his own side of the bank and shoves his hands in his coat pockets. “Hello,” he returns slowly, looking up and down the bank. 

“No way to cross up here,” John says after a moment. He can just tell that this is what the boy is looking for. “Not until you get farther down that way-” he points the way he and Mum will continue, “-or up that way, by t’shops.” He points the opposite way. 

The boy lifts his chin, his shoulders sagging. “Goodbye, then,” he says, turning away. 

“Wait,” John calls out. “Hey, wait! You didn’t tell me your name. Are you starting at the school?”

“I don’t go to school,” the boy answers, turning back. He shrugs, and scuffs his feet on the grass. He looks like he doesn’t want to give over any more information, and John stands up, waiting. “My name is Sherlock,” he finally says, followed by the meanest glare John has ever seen.

“Hallo, Sherlock!” John hails, grinning at him.

“You already said hello,” Sherlock reminds him, tilting his head to the side.

“Yes, but that was before we were friends,” John points out, and tosses his stick aside. He can hear Mum calling him from the street. “I gotta go. See you, Sherlock!” He waves, and runs back to Mum, who tuts at him for talking to boys he doesn’t know, but “Mum, really, how’m I gonna make new friends if I don’t talk to anyone?” he protests, and she glances down at him with a frown that softens into a smile. 

She squeezes his hand, and gives him the roast from the butcher to carry home, and he feels like nothing could be better in the world.

*

They meet again when there’s a thick layer of snow on the ground. 

John has been back to the canal a few times since he met Sherlock - against Mum’s orders because she’s afraid he’ll slip in and drown, but honestly, he’s been able to swim since last year, he’s fine. But he’s not seen the boy since, so he’s found other places to wander about. 

He’s feeling daring today, so he’s crossed over the canal to inspect the trees on the other side. He’s pretty sure he can climb this one, if he can jump a little higher and grab the low branch, but it’s proving more difficult than he’d expected.

“I could give you a leg up,” offers a voice from behind John, and he slips on the snow he’s trampled to slush as he whips around.

“Sherlock!” he greets with a grin. 

“John,” the boy returns. He’s in the dark coat and cap again, thick gloves on his hands. John hadn’t thought about gloves before running out the door, and suddenly his hands are cold and stiff. He shoves that aside.

“Could you? Once I get up I can pull you up,” John says. “Harry always makes fun of me for being short so I never get to climb trees when she’s with me.”

Sherlock hesitates, then walks over, his heavy boots leaving deep impressions in the snow. He crouches down and cups his hands, and when John puts a foot in the cradle, Sherlock lifts up; it’s an effort, John can see that, but they make it work, and his fingers close around the branch, and he hauls himself up, feet scratching at the tree trunk to aid his climb. 

“Brilliant!” he cries, grinning down at Sherlock. “Move a bit, yeah?” And when Sherlock is out of the way he brushes snow off this branch, and the one above him, then shifts so he can hold out a hand to Sherlock to help him up.

They ascend a little higher, just a few more branches, before finding one thick enough for them to sit on. John pulls out a couple of chocolate bars and hands one to Sherlock, who takes it cautiously. 

“Haven’t seen you at school,” John says, sucking on a square of chocolate.

“I told you that I don’t go to school,” Sherlock replies. His chocolate bar is still wrapped, clutched in his gloved hands. “I have a tutor.”

“A tutor? What’s that?” John stares at him with wide eyed curiosity. 

Sherlock frowns sharply at him. “She comes to the house and teaches me. Someone else teaches Mycroft.”

“Who’s Mycroft?” John swings his legs, liking the way it puts him a bit off balance on the branch. 

“My brother,” Sherlock says, and his jaw clenches. “He’s older than me by seven years. Is your brother older?”

“Harry?” John grins and shakes his head. “Harry is my sister. Harriet. Yeah, she’s older. Always tells me what to do. I hate it.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees flatly. Then he’s a flurry of action, stripping off his gloves and putting them next to him, ripping open the chocolate and taking a bite. “Mummy doesn’t like me eating sweets,” he confesses. “She says they’re bad for you.”

“But...” John’s eyes are wide with horror. No sweets? It... it can’t even be thought about! He blinks several times. “You never get sweets? Ever?”

Sherlock shakes his head, and finishes off the chocolate, licks his fingers, then uses the wetness of the branch to wipe the stickiness away. 

“What about afters?”

“We have cake on birthdays and holidays,” Sherlock answers. “Mummy doesn’t approve of desserts.”

“Okay.” John nods decisively and starts slithering down the branches, out of the tree. “Come on!” he calls up to Sherlock, who is still sat up the tree, staring down at him. “I have pocket money.”

Sherlock finally joins him on the ground. “So?” he says.

John takes his hand and pulls him along. “I’m going to get you some sweets,” he says with a grim set to his face. 

*

“Come on, come on,” John chants, fingers pressed to Sherlock’s neck, feeling for his pulse. It’s so faint, fluttery, but still there. If he can get Sherlock to hang on just a little longer, just until the emergency services arrive, he’ll have a decent chance of surviving. “Come on, Sherlock. Open your eyes, you bloody mad bastard. I’ll buy you chocolate every damned day if you just open your eyes.”

Sherlock’s eyes flutter then, slit open. “Mummy, wouldn’t approve,” he rasps. 

John nearly faints from relief, and he presses his forehead to Sherlock’s. “Your mum doesn’t approve of a bloody thing,” he replies. 

“Pocket money,” Sherlock says, eyes rolling back. 

“I’d spend it all on you, all over again.” John lifts his forehead and replaces it with a kiss. “Stay with me, Sherlock. If you stay awake you’ll have a better chance.”

“Already, had everything I wanted.” Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut, open. “Why, John?”

“Why, what?” John asks. Sherlock probably has no idea what he’s saying, but it’s conversation that’s keeping him awake, and John grabs at that.

“Why me? Of, all your friends.”

“Oh that’s easy.” John laughs, and grins down at Sherlock. “You were the only one mad as me, after all.”

Sherlock huffs a breath, as close as he can come to a laugh with his side sliced open. John drops his hand, wrapping his fingers around Sherlock’s hand. 

“And because I’ve always loved you, you bloody great git,” he adds.

*

They become inseparable, after that. Two boys running through the village, always causing some kind of mayhem. 

Sherlock, John learns, lives in the manor house outside of the village. _A posh twat,_ one of his schoolmates calls Sherlock one day in the schoolyard, when John is telling him about their latest adventure. _With a stupid name,_ he adds. John gets sent home for the rest of the week for punching him hard enough to make his nose bleed. He stops telling other kids about Sherlock, though. Sherlock looks utterly delighted by the tale.

Sherlock has two brothers, although one is old enough to be at uni now, and Sherlock hardly sees him. Mycroft, his other brother, annoys him endlessly. Mummy is a musician, and doesn’t eat meat. Father is mostly a blur. Sherlock has very little to say about him. Or about any of his family, really, and John’s alright with that. He’s more interested in climbing trees and leaping down from them in dramatic attacks, or running across the locks on the canal as fast as possible without falling in; he doesn’t need Mum having another go at him for that.

Sherlock speaks of his home with such distaste that John is compelled to bring him back to his home. He spends half the morning trying to convince Sherlock, who seems to think that everyones home life is just as remote as his own, until John finally gives up on words and grabs Sherlock’s hand, drags him back to his house. 

John’s mother, stood in the garden talking to one of the neighbours and smoking, eyes them with a raised eyebrow, then puts out her fag, says a few things to the woman she’d been talking to, and walks up to the pair. 

“I suppose you’ll be wanting something to eat, then?” she asks, hands on her hips.

John glances to Sherlock, who is looking up at John’s mum with suspicion and caution, obviously feeling ill at ease and out of place.

“Yes please, mum,” John says, still holding Sherlock’s hand, a bit surprised when Sherlock squeezes, as if he’s terrified. 

And then his mum’s face changes, softens, and she smiles warmly down at Sherlock, who looks utterly gob-smacked. He looks over to John, frowning. 

“Come on then, you two,” she says, waving them inside. 

John tugs on Sherlock’s hand, unaccountably pleased when Sherlock goes along without any more protests.

They spend every possible moment together through the summer break, often ending up sat at the little table in John’s kitchen, eating sandwiches his mum makes for them, or sometimes in the lounge, watching the telly; Sherlock doesn’t have one at home, his mum refuses to have it in the house, and he’s fascinated by it. And if John’s Mum watches them a little too closely sometimes, her face too thoughtful and serious, well, John’s used to the way mums hover, after all.

*

“Tell your mother, tell her.” Sherlock’s eyes flutter again, and he’s trying so hard to stay awake, John can see that. He doesn’t have the heart to remind Sherlock that John’s mum died years ago.

“Tell her thank you,” Sherlock says. His eyes fall shut then, his breathing too shallow, and nothing John does can seem to wake him again.

But the paramedics rush in then, followed by Lestrade and a swarm of officers, and John steps back to let everyone do their job.

*

The summer before John goes into high school, everything changes. 

“They’re sending you where?” 

Sherlock frowns and kicks at a pebble with his bare toes. His mother never lets him wear trainers, and he can’t stand wearing the loafers in this heat. “Away. To school. Father says the tutors can’t teach me anything more, and that I have to be formally educated in order to get my GCSEs and go to college, and university.”

“Well, where though?” John asks. He knows there’s a public school a few hours away. That wouldn’t be so bad. He could still see Sherlock on weekends and holidays, right?

Sherlock’s body seems to collapse down, and he sits in a heap next to John. “Somewhere in the south,” he says. “I’ll be there full time.”

“What?” John sits down next to Sherlock, his eyes wide. “But, we’ll never see each other!”

“I know!” Sherlock moans, and covers his face with his hands. “God, they do every bloody thing to make me miserable.” He sprawls out on the grass. His white button up is sticking to him in the heat, and he flaps the front to get some air under it. 

“How long will you be there?” John toes his own shoes off, a sort of gesture of solidarity, and stuffs his socks inside them. It does feel better. 

“Mummy says I can come home for the holidays, but they’ll probably forget to send for me,” Sherlock says, all bitterness and anger. “I imagine I’ll be there until I’m finished with high school. Mycroft said he’ll give me a month until they kick me out.”

“Yeah, but your brother’s a wanker,” John mutters. “When are you leaving?” he asks quietly, plucking at grass.

“At the end of the month.”

“That’s, less than two weeks.” John falls back on the grass so he’s lying next to Sherlock. He reaches out, blindly, and grabs Sherlock’s hand. “Look, I’ll write you every day, if you want.”

Sherlock’s fingers tighten around John’s. “Yes,” he agrees. “Every day.”

*

Every day turns out to be once a week, for a few weeks, as John’s mum refuses to post a letter every day. John still gets a letter from Sherlock almost every day despite that, and John finally starts using his pocket money to mail his letters every day on his way home from school, instead of buying sweets.

He tells Sherlock about this at length in one letter, and doesn’t get a reply for over a week. When it finally comes it reads only _‘You should of course spend your money on what you wish, instead of wasting it on me.’_ John’s reply is very short, and to the point: _Don’t be a twat, Sherlock._ It’s never mentioned again.

Sherlock lasts at the school for an entire year, but - and he relates this to John with pride when they meet by the canal after school ends - the school has asked Sherlock’s parents not to send him back next year. He doesn’t, however, elaborate on the nature of whatever has caused them to say this.

The hope, for both of them, is a school closer to the village; Sherlock’s parents will never send him to a state school, but they can hope for one that’s close enough to reach on the bus. In the meantime Sherlock sneaks his chemistry set out of his house and they set it up in the Abbey ruins; no one ever comes here, and there are a few places sheltered enough for them to hang out. John steals a tarp from his dad’s shed, and they build a bit of an awning for when it rains. 

It’s hot this summer, hotter than John can remember it ever being. The first time he strips off his shirt, Sherlock stares at the fading scars on John’s arms and torso. 

“Rugby,” John explains with a grin. “Most of them will be gone by the time it starts up again but this one-” He holds up his forearm to show off the long scar along the bone. “-I really hope this one stays.”

Sherlock’s eyes are wide as he reaches out with long fingers to trace it. “I remember you writing about it,” he says. “16 stitches.”

“Yeah, hurt like a bloody bitch,” John says, nodding. He catches Sherlock’s sigh at his language; so unimaginative, he’d called swearing. But John likes to do it. Makes him feel older.

They stretch out on the grass near Sherlock’s latest experiment, the sun bright and hot over them, and do very little but drink the lemonade they bought earlier, and eat pasties and sweets, except on the days it’s raining heavily. The awning doesn’t protect Sherlock’s experiments, and the rain ruins them on those few days. John cracks up listening to Sherlock rant and rave and swear worse than even John’s dad swears when he’s pissed. They go racing through the streets of the village after one thing or the other then, drenched and exhausted at the end of each day, but unwilling to part, despite the inclement weather.

And then Sherlock is sent abroad to school, France, and they spend the whole day Sherlock breaks the news hidden from everyone else, tucked away in the ruined Abbey, talking quietly to each other about nothing at all. 

The year Sherlock is abroad is the hardest year that John has ever had to go through, at that point, and he hates to think how difficult it must be for Sherlock. At least John has his schoolmates, and his family, even if he doesn’t always get along with them. Sherlock has no one there that he knows. Not yet, at least. 

John still writes him everyday, and although Sherlock can only get out to mail his letters at weekend, they’re long, something written everyday. 

John keeps every single one.

*

“So have they kicked you out of this one as well?” John asks as Sherlock jumps off the train, duffel bag slung over one shoulder. 

They hug each other tightly, holding on for several long moments, relaxing into each other’s presence. 

“I missed you,” Sherlock says into John’s shoulder. He’s grown a good three inches since the summer, when they last saw each other. Sherlock’s parents had gone to France over Christmas, instead of having him come home, and he’s remained at the school over all the other breaks. 

“You bloody well should have,” John returns, muffled by Sherlock’s chest, and thumps him on the back. “Missed you too, you git.”

They separate reluctantly, and John takes the duffel, even though Sherlock protests at first. 

“I didn’t know if you’d still be interested in it, but I set up your chemistry equipment at the Abbey,” John says as they’re leaving the station and the crowd of people behind. Sherlock said in his last letter that he’d told his family not to meet him at the train, and that he’d find his own way home.

Sherlock’s a bit younger than him, only 14 now, and John can’t imagine why any family wouldn’t want to meet their son after so long away; but Sherlock’s family isn’t here, and that just means he has Sherlock all to himself right now, so he can’t make himself care all that much.

“Thank you,” Sherlock says, a smile spreading over his face, uncertain and hesitant though it is. “I wasn’t sure you’d care to spend the time with me,” he finally admits as they walk into the village proper.

John shoots him a look he knows reflects his confusion. “Why the hell wouldn’t I?” he asks. “Who else would I want to spend my time with?”

Sherlock ducks his head, but John still catches his soft smile. “You’ve written about the friends you have,” he says with a wave of his hand. “I’m sure they will want a significant portion of your time.”

“Yeah, well, they can’t have it,” John says with a shrug of his shoulders, and closes the subject. 

He does insist they stop at the nearest shop for snacks and drinks, before they head up to the Abbey. He doesn’t bring up why Sherlock isn’t going straight home, grateful for the time he gets to spend with him. He’s greedy, he knows that, when it comes to Sherlock. But if Sherlock is willing to go along with it, if Sherlock maybe wants to spend just as much time with him, well. Everyone else can just fuck off. 

He looks over to Sherlock as they settle next to the reconstructed chemistry lab, and watches him check over the equipment, rearranging things and humming under his breath. It’s different, the way seeing Sherlock is making him feel. Like his insides are twisting, like his breath has been knocked out of him. He just wants to keep Sherlock away from everyone else, here with him, forever.

Then Sherlock sits next to John and steals his open bottle of ginger beer. John pretends to be annoyed, and there’s a scuffle over it, which ends with it being splashed over both of them and eventually emptied over Sherlock’s hair.

John tosses the empty bottle at him and tries to wipe his hands off on the grass as Sherlock heaves with laughter, curled up on his side. “Yeah, laugh, you cock,” he mutters, but with a wide smile. It’s so rare to see Sherlock like this that he’d spend a year’s worth of pocket money in a heartbeat to see it again, just for a moment. 

Sherlock’s laughter dies down and he kicks weakly at John, catching him on the thigh. “Give us a packet of crisps,” he says, breathless from his laughter.

John throws them rather forcefully, followed by a bottle of lemonade, though less forcefully, and lays next to Sherlock, ignoring the wetness on the grass that soaks into his t-shirt. “I’m glad you’re back,” he says. Understatement of massive proportions. He half wants to move closer, rest his head on Sherlock’s chest, but he doesn’t. 

“They haven’t kicked me out,” Sherlock states after a long silence. “I’m to go back at the end of the summer.”

“But you’ll come back after, right?” John clarifies, finding it hard to speak around the way his lungs are trying to seize up. “You could ask if you could come home at Christmas, instead of them going to you.”

“They didn’t come to me,” Sherlock says harshly, and sits up. “Well, for a day they did, I suppose. Mummy and Father. They came to see me on Christmas Day. We had dinner at a restaurant Mummy likes, so we didn’t even have a proper roast. They gave me a present, I gave them theirs, and they took me back to the school.”

“What? Seriously?” He sits up as well, fueled by indignation, fury that Sherlock’s family so consistently disregards him. 

“I rather enjoyed your science workbook more than their present,” Sherlock says. 

John huffs a laugh. He’d forgotten he’d sent that, at the end of winter term. Thought Sherlock would get a kick out of his assignments, and how he was seemingly way ahead of the other students, and how that was due to Sherlock. 

“Sherringford came to visit,” Sherlock continues, plucking at the grass again.

The rarely spoken of eldest brother. John raises his eyebrows, expecting to be told how another one of Sherlock’s family was a right tosser. “Spend the day together?”

“A few days,” Sherlock says with a slight frown, as if he’s still trying to reconcile a member of his family voluntarily spending any time with him. “He’s obsessed with his butterflies and insects. But he plays the piano wonderfully. He has a flat in Paris that we stayed at. He lives with his boyfriend.” Here he slants a glance at John.

“What’s he look like then, this boyfriend? He’s not French is he?” John asks, wrinkling his nose, and Sherlock just laughs and falls back on the grass.

“He is French, unfortunately. But he’s a chef, which I suppose makes up for it.” Sherlock throws a handful of grass at John. 

“So you got your roast after all, then?”

“Yes.” Sherlock hesitates, then reaches out and wraps his fingers around John’s hand. “I liked them,” he says. 

John closes his sticky fingers around Sherlock’s, smiling up at the sky.

*

John meets Sherlock’s brother, the first of his family he’s met, the day before Sherlock is to return to France. Sherlock shows up at the Abbey looking nervous. John’s sat against a broken wall, in baggy, worn out jeans, and a t-shirt, shoes and socks off, halfway through a bottle of ginger beer. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, scrambling to his feet, frowning at the obvious nerves in every inch of Sherlock’s body. He’ll bloody well pummel anyone who’s done something to hurt Sherlock, he will, he doesn’t care what kind of restriction it gets him.

“I told you that the reason I am returning to France early is to spend a week with my eldest brother,” Sherlock says, pacing. He’s in his typical dark slacks and button up shirt, but he hasn’t kicked off his loafers yet, and that makes John’s frown deepen.

“They aren’t sending you today, are they?” he asks. It’s still early morning, just after 10, so it’s entirely possible, especially considering the shite that Sherlock’s parents have already pulled with him.

Sherlock stops in his tracks and shakes his head. “I wouldn’t let them, even if they did try,” he hisses under his breath, and it makes John wonder if Sherlock had had to fight just to remain here for this long. “My brother came to pick me up,” he finally says, resuming his pacing. “He would like to meet you.”

“Your brother Sherringford? Because I don’t think I want to meet Mycroft.” The thought makes him shudder. From what little Sherlock’s told him of Mycroft, John would be happy to never meet him.

Sherlock stops his pacing again, and turns to John, smiling slowly. “Yes,” he confirms. Then his nerves seem to flood back. “I know this place, that it’s, well, our place.” He rubs a hand over one arm. “But I did not want to have you come up to the house, and I didn’t want to...” He trails off and sighs. 

“Just spit it out, for christ’s sake,” John orders, clapping Sherlock on the shoulder. “He wants to meet me. And you thought he could meet me here, right? Well, go and get him.”

“He’s, just back there. I already brought him,” Sherlock admits, and it’s like everything seems to drain out of him. “I didn’t know what you’d say. If you’d be upset that I brought him here.”

“I don’t think you’d have brought him here if you were worried about him grassing on us,” John says. “I’m not mad, Sherlock. Go on, get him.”

Sherlock hesitates, then flings his arms around John in a quick hug before turning away and running back through the ruins. He returns a few minutes later with a very tall man, lean, with ginger hair and a beard. He’s in jeans as well, a button up, and a tweed jacket. And when he sees John he smiles widely, so warmly, that John can’t help but return it. 

This is not what he’d expected anyone in Sherlock’s family to be like. 

“My dear boy,” Sherringford greets in a deep, rolling voice, clasping John’s hand in both of his, looking down on him with such fondness that John relaxes instantly. “I’ve heard so much about you from Sherlock. It is my pleasure to meet you.”

John glances to Sherlock, who actually blushes and looks away. “Uh, thank you. Sir,” he manages. “I’ve heard about you, as well.”

Sherringford chuckles and leans close, winks. “Only the very worst parts, I do hope,” he says. “Everything else is so boring.”

“Er. Yes.” John blinks at him, not knowing what to say. He’s suddenly very, very glad that Sherlock is going to be spending time with this brother, though. Sherlock needs family that treats him like he matters. 

“Good, good,” Sherringford rumbles, and wanders over to the makeshift lab. “Ah, so these are the experiments the two of you have been working on.”

“He’s okay,” John says, moving to Sherlock’s side. And he means it. 

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees, with relief. “Thank you. I wanted you to meet him.”

“I’m glad you brought him along. Is he sticking around?” 

“Only if I am not intruding,” Sherringford calls over his shoulder, even though he is a fair distance away and John has been speaking softly. “I trust you will tell me, Sherlock, when I am to go?”

“I will,” Sherlock assures him, walking to his side. “But you can stay, for now.”

“Oh good,” Sherringford says. “Go back to where I was waiting, my dear boy, and fetch the bag I left there. Wouldn’t want to go hungry all the way out here, now.”

Sherlock eyes him suspiciously, but goes. John waits, suspecting that it has been set up this way for Sherringford to have a moment alone with him. He’s correct in that, as the older man waves him over. He has a moment of nerves. What if Sherlock’s brother doesn’t like him? What if he hates John? What if...

“You have been a good friend to Sherlock,” Sherringford says softly, laying a gentle hand on John’s shoulder. “And I am very grateful to you for that.”

John’s rather shocked by the compliment, and deeply relieved, and he has a hard time finding something to say. He settles on the truth. “Sherlock’s been a good friend to me,” he says. 

“He doesn’t have anyone else he calls a friend,” Sherringford continues, nodding. “And his family are rather disinterested in personal relationships. I, myself, have been quite lax in that as well, unfortunately. But I shall do all I can to remedy the situation between Sherlock and myself. I would like to assure you that not all of his family are unconcerned regarding his happiness and welfare.”

John presses his lips together and tries to swallow past the sudden rage he feels, because even though Sherlock doesn’t talk about his family often, when he does it is completely without attachment, and often with resentment. “You’d better not hurt him,” he says in a low, harsh voice. “I know I can’t do anything to you, but if you hurt him...”

Sherringford turns to face John and places his hand on his own chest, over his heart. “I will not,” he promises. “And I will do everything I can to stop others from doing so. But you must give me the same promise, John Watson.”

It eases the tightness inside John, lets him breathe easier. “I promise,” John says sincerely. “It’s not anything different from what I’ve always done.”

“Good man!” Sherringford says, breaking the tension with a wide smile. “Stop tarrying, Sherlock, come on!” he calls then. “I’m done interrogating your friend, now let’s have some of that cake, shall we?”

Sherlock rushes over to them and looks John over quickly, then nods. “You brought it, Sherringford,” he says. “You get to set it out.”

*

God knows, he hasn’t performed any serious surgery in the last few years, but John’s hands are itching to get into the operating theatre, to shove aside all the doctors in there, to take over. It’s Sherlock in there, his Sherlock, and no one else should be taking care of him this way. No one but John. 

And it’s going to be hours before John knows anything. Lestrade had stuck around for awhile earlier, but he has a job to do, and he’d had to get back to that. Mycroft had texted, a brief **Please inform me when you have pertinent information. -MH** to which John had responded **Piss off. You want to know, you can come wait here with me.**

He hasn’t heard from Sherringford yet, but then, who would have told him? Mycroft probably wouldn’t even think about it. He pulls out his phone again, types up the text **Sherlock badly injured, in surgery. At St Bart’s. Don’t expect you to fly out. I’ll keep you updated.JW** and sends it. Sherringford still lives in Paris, still with the same man he’d been with the first time Sherlock had visited him, as a child. He’d want to fly out, and he probably will. It’d be good to see him again, even under the circumstances. 

But for now he’s sat alone in the waiting room, hating himself for the things he’s never said to Sherlock. 

*

Something seems to break terribly in Sherlock that year at school, despite his proximity to his brother. His letters turn so angry at everyone at his school, at the constant teasing of his schoolmates, which turn into mockery; at the seeming stupidity of the teachers and their inability to teach him anything worthwhile. 

The only times his letters are at all civil toward anyone are the times he’s on holidays at his brother’s. It’s during one of those holidays that John gets home from a long walk to find he’s missed a phone call from Sherlock, and he swears so vehemently that his mum cuffs him on the back of the head and bars him from the telly for the rest of the day. 

John doesn’t leave the house for a week, hoping Sherlock will ring back. He’s antsy, unable to focus on much of anything, unable to sleep, or keep still, or go do anything. He’s prepared to stay in for as long as necessary, waiting. His mum calls him down well after supper one night, mildly annoyed at the phone ringing so late.

“Sherlock,” she sighs, handing the receiver over with a shake of her head.

John grabs the phone from her, then apologises and waits until she’s left the hall before he starts talking. “I was afraid you weren’t going to call back,” he says in a rush. “I’ve been staying at home waiting.”

“Have you?” Sherlock sounds distant, as if he doesn’t care, but John knows him better than that by now. He always sounds like that when he cares too much and doesn’t want to show his hand.

“You idiot,” John chides. “Course I have.” He sits in the hall, back against the wall, and sighs. “It’s good to talk to you, Sherlock.”

There’s a long pause before Sherlock replies. “It’s good to hear you,” he says, so quietly that John has to strain to hear him.

“You’re with Sherringford right now, aren’t you?” John asks. “You’d better be. Your last letter was a mess. But I would have decked that little shite for saying that as well.”

Sherlock gives a surprised laugh, which is almost instantly cut off. “Yes. One fight too many, however,” he sighs, and John’s relieved that Sherlock drops that distant voice he’d been using. “They’ve expelled me.”

John nearly drops the phone. “You’re coming home?” he asks, excited. He knows he should be upset that Sherlock’s been kicked out of another school, that he’s been so miserable, but he just wants him to come back. He’s already planning what they’re going to do, and how long it will take for him to get the lab set back up.

“No,” Sherlock says after another lengthy pause, and it makes John’s stomach turn at sound of Sherlock’s voice. “My parents are sending me to live in America with my cousins.”

John does drop the phone at that, and sits in shock until Sherlock’s voice, tinny and faint in the receiver on the floor next to John, finally breaks him out of it. He picks up the phone, but still doesn’t know what to say.

“America?” is all that comes out. “They’re sending you to the States?” He can’t believe it, it’s not possible, oh god, no. 

“Yes.” Sherlock sounds so aggrieved. “Sherringford has been trying to convince Father all week to let me stay here with him, to go to school in Paris, but Father won’t listen. And since I’m only just 15, I have to go.”

“But... No!” John refuses to acknowledge it. Can’t accept it. “Sherlock, no!”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock insists, and his voice sounds so tired, so sad, that John covers his face, feels his eyes burn. 

“They can’t, Sherlock. You don’t know anyone there. You’ll be alone.” He’s whispering, he knows, but he can’t make himself talk any louder. Jesus, France was too far. The States feels like another planet altogether.

“Sherringford has promised to visit me on the holidays, and when he can.” It’s little comfort, but at least it’s something. John won’t be able to visit, he knows that, but at least someone will. Sherlock’s voice wavers, and he sucks in a deep breath. 

“You have my address. Don’t stop writing Sherlock, please. I don’t care if it’s all about how you hate everyone and everything there. And call me. As often as you can. I’ll try to call you. I will,” John swears. He’d like to promise that he’ll visit, but they both know it’ll never happen. So he says what he can, lets Sherlock know that he’ll be here when this is over.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice lingers, but he doesn’t say anything more. Finally he takes in a deep breath, loud enough for John to hear. “Sherringford says that I may stay on the line with you as long as I’d like.”

“Thank god,” John says, and if his own voice is shakey, well, he’s just going to ignore that. Because he feels like he’s been ripped apart. Before, he’d been able to look forward to summers catching up with Sherlock. At least some time with him. But this, it is too much. Sherlock is being sent away, properly exiled, and John has no idea when he will see him again. It could be _years_. And all he wants is to reach through the phone lines and wrap his arms around Sherlock, and hold on to him so tightly that no one would be able to tear them apart.

“Don’t ever leave me,” Sherlock says suddenly, fiercely. “This, it’s just. Being apart. But never leave me, John. Please.” 

“How could I ever?” John says, so honestly that he doesn’t even think about his response. “Jesus, Sherlock, you’re like, you’re like my brother. You’re more than my brother. You’re my best friend, and my brother, and I love you, okay? Don’t you ever forget that. Someone loves you, and always will. And in the end, it’s just a few years, right? I’ll be done with college by then, and I can get my own place, and you can come and stay with me. We’ll pick a university to go to, and we’ll starve together to pay for it, but we’ll do it without your family. Just, do what Sherringford tells you to do, okay? He loves you too. He’ll try and take care of you.”

He runs out of words to say, and in the silence that follows he realises his voice is hoarse and there are tears on his cheeks, and he can hear Sherlock crying over the phone, great wracking sobs, but Sherringford’s voice is there, soft and gentle, and John stays quiet, trying to control himself as Sherringford tries to comfort Sherlock. 

John has no idea how long passes before Sherlock comes back on the line, his voice so raw and tired. “Thank you,” he says. “John, thank you.”

“No, don’t thank me, right?” John says. “You don’t ever have to.”

“Can you stay on the line for a while longer?” Sherlock requests, and John leans his head back against the wall, catching movement out of the corner of his eye; he’s startled to see his mum standing in the doorway of the lounge, watching him with a sad smile. John doesn’t say anything to her but she just nods, and walks past him, ruffling his hair as she goes upstairs. 

“Yeah,” John says. “Course I can. As long as you want, Sherlock. Even if you fall asleep, I’ll stay on the phone until Sherringford tells me to hang up.”

Sherlock sniffs a few times. “I hate them you know, John,” he finally says. “My family. I shall never forgive them for this.”

“Yeah, well you didn’t need them anyway,” John tells him, and he’ll never forgive them either. It’s too much, it’s too far. “You have me and your brother, right? And we’re never going to hurt you.”

“I do too, you know,” Sherlock says, and now he sounds tired, so weary, that John wonders how he’s still awake. “I love you too.”

“Oh, I’ve always known that,” John says softly, but it makes something in him go soft, and it makes his heart pound. Long minutes pass in silence, and he can hear Sherlock’s breathing, congested from his earlier crying, even out in faint snores. 

“Hello, John,” comes Sherringford’s voice then. It had been so deep and booming when John had met him that it was hard to imagine this whisper was the same man. 

“Is he going to be alright?” John asks immediately.

“In time, I think so,” Sherringford says. “Michel is putting him into bed now. John, thank you. For what you said. It wasn’t that I was listening, but I did hear it.”

“Well, it’s not like it’s any secret,” John says. Anyone should know that by now. They’d been friends for ten years. How could they not love each other? 

“No, but I don’t think anyone has ever said those things to him before. Not quite like that. I find myself humbled by your heartfelt honesty toward him, and I shall heed your example. My dear, dear boy. Is there anyone there that you can confide in? This is hard for you, as well.”

“No, I. I’ll be fine,” John assures him. “Well, I won’t be.” He laughs, half hysterical, half desperately sad. “But like I said, it’s just a few years. It’s not forever.”

“No, not forever,” Sherringford agrees. “Please call me, if you ever need me, John. I shall write to you with all my details, as well as those for where Sherlock will be staying.” 

“Okay. Thanks. For, for, everything.”

“Family doesn’t need to be thanked, John.”

The implication strikes John deep, and nearly sets him crying again. “Yeah,” he says. 

“Goodnight, John.”

John hangs up then, and draws his legs up to his chest and wraps his arms around his knees, buries his face in his thighs, and just stays like that well into the night.

*

“Shh. Don’t wake him. Not yet.”

The voice is vaguely familiar, and it vibrates through John, dragging him out of restless sleep.

“Poor dear.” That’s Mrs Hudson, now. Soft voice, and a brush of her fingers on his forehead. “Won’t budge from here. Not that I blame him.”

“Would you be so kind, Emma dear, to get me a coffee from the cafe?” Sherringford asks, and John is sure it’s him, no one else sounds like that. But John doesn’t really want to face anyone right now. 

“Oh, of course. You must be a bit out of sorts from the flight, as well as all this. I’ll be a few minutes, it’s not exactly close.”

There’s silence for a few minutes, then Sherringford’s hand comes to rest on John’s head, stroking over his hair. “No need for you to talk,” he says softly. “Rest all you need, John.”

John lays there for several more minutes, his eyes closed, and tears slip across his nose and cheek as everything overwhelms him for a few moments. And Sherringford, so comforting here, something he’s missed so much since his mum died, and he hadn’t even realised it.

Then John wipes away the tears and takes a shuddering breath. “No word?” he asks, sitting up. 

“He’s out of surgery,” Sherringford says, handing John a packet of tissues without commenting on the tears. His own eyes are puffy and red rimmed, after all. “No one is allowed to see him, not even me. They haven’t told me anything else, or I would have woken you immediately.”

John nods. He feels a twitch of anger that he hadn’t been woken the moment Sherlock came out of surgery, but he can understand why he wasn’t. And it was Sherringford who had made that decision, so he lets it pass. 

“I told you you didn’t have to fly out,” he says, but he knows that there was no way he wasn’t going to.

Sherringford manages a faint smile and pats John on the knee. “I suspect this happened on a case?”

“Er, yes. He went to investigate one aspect, I went off to look into another, and he got the bad end of it. Whoever attacked him knew how to handle a knife.” It’s all John can stand to say right now. He’s given Lestrade a basic statement, but there isn’t much he can say. Nothing can really be determined until - and it was until, and not if - Sherlock wakes up. 

“Well. We’ll remain here until we can take him with us,” Sherringford says, and crosses his legs. “Michel is at your house, taking care of any issues there.”

John feels such gratitude, such a wave of relief, that he bends over and covers his face from facing it all.

*

He’s incredibly nervous, and there’s no way he can hide it, even from himself. The cab ride takes forever, and the cab reeks, even when the cabbie isn’t smoking. 

The area is clean and nice and everything is the same from one house to the next, and it is so obvious that it’s a very posh neighbourhood; no wonder Sherlock’s bored out of his skull all the time, living here. They turn down another street, and up a private road, toward a large house.

There’s someone sat on the steps, and they perk up as the cab pulls to a stop in the drive. John asks the cabbie to wait for him, and as soon as he opens the door he knows why that person - a child, it looks like - is sat outside. A girl, from the long, dark hair, headphones over her ears to block out the yelling from inside. 

She slips the headphones down around her neck as he walks closer, up the path, stopping at the steps a few feet from the girl. She’s eyeing him cautiously, her chin raised defiantly. 

“Who are you?” she asks, and her accent is jarring. John doesn’t see how he could ever get used to that accent. 

“Er, John,” he answers, raising his voice to be heard over the intense argument inside. He hears Sherlock then, his voice deeper than John remembers but still so recognisable, and John has never, never heard Sherlock sound like that, so enraged and out of control. His eyes widen at the shock. 

“They’re always screaming at each other like that,” the girl says, still watching him. She’s taken the headphones off now, and sets them next to the portable cd player. “Mom and Dad and Sherlock do not get along.”

John blinks down at her, trying to think of what to say or do that doesn’t involve him pushing into the house and dragging Sherlock out of there. “I’m, here to see Sherlock,” he finally manages.

“Sherlock doesn’t have any friends,” she says, and still doesn’t get up or make any move to announce his arrival. “Why would you be here to see him?”

“Well, I. Hang on, he does have friends,” John says, taking a step forward, suddenly angry. “I’m his friend. So can you please---”

She jumps up then, her own eyes going wide. “Oh, you’re English as well!” she cries, her hands flying to her mouth. “You’re _that_ John!”

John’s mouth snaps shut, and he’s really getting a bit sick of the mental whiplash he’s getting from talking to this kid. “Er, yes?” he tries. 

But she isn’t listening. She’s already turned and flung open the door, running in, shouting, “Sherlock, Sherlock! John is here!”

And Sherlock’s voice, in the middle of some diatribe that John can’t quite make out, despite it’s volume, abruptly falls silent. The girl’s parents, presumably the other two voices, start yelling again, but Sherlock comes racing through the front door seconds later and doesn’t stop; he flings his arms around John as soon as he’s close enough, who’s completely shocked into silence and paralysis.

“John,” Sherlock breathes against his neck, grinning, practically vibrating with excitement, and it shakes John out of his daze enough for him to return the fierce embrace. 

“Jesus, Sherlock!” he manages, holding him as tight as he can. It should be awkward, with his face pressed into Sherlock’s shoulder, the way Sherlock is a good three inches taller than he is, but all John can think about is how good it feels to finally have him near again. “God, I’ve missed you,” he adds when he has a chance to think more. In no way does it convey what he wants to say; I love you, never go away again, never leave my side. So he just squeezes harder. 

“What the hell is going on,” comes a male voice. The girl’s father, John thinks, but doesn’t let go of Sherlock until Sherlock loosens his grips and moves back first. 

“I’ve come to collect Sherlock,” John states, finally turning to look at Sherlock’s cousins with a smile that he doesn’t mean. 

“What do you mean, collect?” the woman asks. 

“I imagine they will be most upset to see the back of me,” Sherlock says dismissively, rolling his eyes at John. “Well, to see the end of my parents’ cheques, at least,” he adds with a hateful glare at the couple.

“Now look here, young man,” the father starts, but John holds up a hand, although his attention is solely on Sherlock. 

“Look, I’m sorry I couldn’t be here for your birthday,” he says to Sherlock. “But Sherringford and I thought it would be better if I came after you turned 18. That way there wouldn’t be any problems on either side of the pond, as it were.” 

Sherlock sucks down a breath and nods, lips pressed together and eyes shining. John grins up at him and directs his attention back to Sherlock’s relatives. “As I said, I’ve come to take him home. I’ve got the cab waiting, Sherlock, and it’s bloody dear, so if you’d get your shit together as fast as possible, we can go.”

“I’ve told you before how unimaginative your cursing is,” Sherlock says, feigning boredom, and pulls his cuffs down. “Honestly, John. My things are not shit.”

“Shite then,” John corrects with a glare. “Get a move on, will you? This bloody heat is doing me in.”

“Oh, very well,” Sherlock relents with a barely restrained smile, then dashes inside with the girl following him.

“So you’re his boyfriend, then,” the man snaps at John, crossing his arms over his chest. “Some back woods goddamn faggot?”

John blinks at the blatant slur, and at the statement that he’s Sherlock’s partner. “I’m sorry, what?” he says.

“Sherlock’s told us about you,” the man continues. “How you’ve been his boyfriend for years. Refuses to date any decent girls because of you. You should have had the decency to stay in England and let him fix his head here.”

Sherlock told them... John shakes his head and rubs his eyes. “Right. Listen, you complete knobhead. Med student, not a backwoods anything, first of all. Second, anyone dating your cousin should be honoured, and I am. Sherlock is the most amazing person I have ever met, and will ever meet, so you keep your fucking gob shut, or I will shut it for you. I don’t want to do that in front of your kid, but if you so much as say one more negative thing to him before we leave, I will. Is that clear?”

The man opens his mouth to protest, but he stops, and shuts it, then turns and stalks inside, followed by his wife. 

The girl, Sherlock’s little cousin, comes running out a few minutes later and sits on the steps next to John.

“I’m Irene,” she says, holding out a slim hand.

Irene. Oh! Of course she is. John gives her a weak smile and shakes her hand. “Sherlock’s told me about you,” he says. “Thinks you’re passably intelligent.”

Her eyes go wide with pleasure. “Did he say that about me? Really?” When John nods she breaks out into a grin. “I’m going to miss him,” she says. “He’s very clever, you know. He teaches me all sorts of things. He taught me to read.”

“Yeah, he mentioned that. I didn’t realise it was you, at first. He was pretty impressed that you learned so quickly.” John reaches into his coat and takes out his little notebook and a pen, and scrawls his address out, then rips out the paper and hands it to her. “Memorise that and destroy the evidence,” he says with a wink. “It’s where I live, in London. And Sherlock. He’ll be living with me. Write to him. It’ll make him happy.”

“Will it? Do you mean it?”

“He means it,” Sherlock says, leaning down over her from behind. He ruffles her hair and knocks her with his leg. “Goodbye, Irene.”

“Goodbye, Sherlock. I’ll see you again, you know,” Irene promises, and jumps up to hug him tightly.

He pats her awkwardly on the head. “I shall look forward to it,” he says softly. When she pulls away and runs inside, he turns to John and smiles shakily. John takes the suitcase from him and grins. 

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he says. 

*

When the cab finally pulls up outside a hotel, the fare is almost extortionate. But John hands off the cash, because Sherringford gave him a bit extra for this sort of thing. The hotel is good, not too showy, but high quality. John had protested when Sherringford had cancelled his original booking and sent him here, but none of that matters now. All that matters is that he has Sherlock back, that they’re together. 

He pulls Sherlock inside, past the desk and straight to the lift, which is, luckily, empty. He hits the button for their floor -third- and drops the suitcase. Sherlock is stiff at his side, hands in his trouser pockets, chin up, staring straight ahead. The strain on his face is so obvious, the pain carving lines around his mouth and eyes. 

John catches him by his arm and pulls him close, wraps him in his arms. Sherlock doesn’t change his body language at all, but John doesn’t let go until the elevator dings and stops at their floor. Then he picks up the case again, and leads Sherlock in silence to the room, and ushers him in. 

It’s then, once the door is shut and locked, that Sherlock crumples, sinking into a chair and covering his face, shuddering. John rushes to kneel in front of him, smoothing his hands over Sherlock’s hair, pressing kisses to his forehead. 

“Shhh, it’s all right, Sherlock, it’s okay. I’m here. We’re going to go home, it’s all right.”

“John, I’m sorry,” Sherlock says, his voice muffled behind his hands. “I’m sorry, but he kept insisting, and I had to say something!”

John frowns and pulls at Sherlock’s hands until Sherlock drops them and meets John’s gaze. “Sherlock...” He looks so sad, and so broken, and John surges up to press his forehead to Sherlock’s. “Whatever it is, it’s okay now. Nothing else matters now.”

“You heard him,” Sherlock says, his voice low and rough. “I told them you were my boyfriend. That you had been for years. A lie, John. It was a lie, and I told them on purpose because you weren’t there, and you couldn’t correct them.”

“So?” John puts his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. “You did the right thing. If you’d told me sooner I could have played along. Are you actually worried about this? Sherlock? You can’t possibly think I’d be angry.”

Sherlock stares at John, his confusion apparent. “You aren’t bothered? John, what he called you...”

“Is probably nothing compared to what he’s called you, Sherlock. I’m not bothered. I know who I am, and honestly, you did that to protect yourself so I’m glad you did it. If I’d caught on sooner I would have kissed you in front of him, just to piss him off.”

“You would have?”

John knows he must be missing something, because no, Sherlock cannot possibly think that John would ever, ever shun him, reject him, do anything to hurt him. He laughs softly and shakes his head. “You wouldn’t be the first guy I’ve kissed, Sherlock,” he says. 

Sherlock pulls back then, sitting up straight. “Oh?”

“Oh come on Sherlock. When have you known me to limit myself when it’s pointless to do so?” John stands and looks down.

“I.” Sherlock shakes his head. “I should have told you what I had said to my cousin,” he says, standing as well. “I don’t deserve your friendship, no one---”

“I thought we covered this when you first got sent here,” John interrupts. “I love you, and that’s all there is to it, Sherlock. And you deserve that. You deserve more than me, more than anyone can ever give, but that’s all I have. I just have me, and that’s already yours.”

“If I am allowed to deserve you, then you John, you are more than allowed to deserve me,” Sherlock counters, and his smile is forced, John can tell that, but he’ll take it for now over the abject despair that had been in every line of Sherlock’s body. 

So John nods, once, curtly. “Deal,” he says, holding out his hand in a formal gesture.

“Perhaps something more personal,” Sherlock suggests.

John smiles at that, because Sherlock has always loved hugs, loved to be wrapped up in an embrace and just held. He holds out his arms and steps toward Sherlock, who steps back, shaking his head. 

“Ah, I had, something else in mind,” Sherlock says, looking to the side. He pulls at the cuffs of his shirt, chews on his bottom lip. 

John raises his eyebrows and lowers his arms. It is, possibly, the first time Sherlock has ever refused a hug from him. “Okay,” he says slowly. “Just say it then, Sherlock.”

“Ah, you mentioned earlier.” A quick flick of his fingers. “John, I’ve never kissed anyone,” Sherlock finally admits in a rush. “I’ve never wanted to. No one ever, appealed to me in that way.”

“You want me to kiss you?” And, ok, he’s never felt quite this shocked by Sherlock before. It’s a day for this kind of thing, obviously. 

Sherlock, still not looking at him, nods. “If it wouldn’t be an inconvenience.”

“An incon...” John trails off and shakes his head. “You really are an idiot, aren’t you?” he says fondly. He sees a look of sheer devastation and panic cross Sherlock’s face and rushes back to him, sliding his hands over Sherlock’s cheeks. “No, no, not like that, you bloody git. Like kissing you would be so difficult. Look at you, Sherlock, you’re amazing, you’re beautiful, I’ve always thought so. I’ve spent more than half my life next to you. Kissing you, that’s just, it’s just part of it, Sherlock. If that’s what you want.”

And it’s so much more than that, and John is going to have to be careful with this. It took him a few years to figure it out, not until after Sherlock had left. But he’s wanted to kiss Sherlock for a long time, wanted more than that. No, kissing him wouldn’t be an inconvenience at all. 

“Yes,” Sherlock says, so softly, more of a breath of sound than anything, and John can’t help it, can’t make Sherlock wait. He pulls Sherlock down lower and brushes his lips over Sherlock’s, presses his mouth to Sherlock’s in a soft kiss. It’s nowhere near what he wants, but it’s so sweet, and it’s more than he has ever had. 

“Don’t worry, I’m not done,” John says when he moves back, which is such an effort, because he wants to just wrap Sherlock in his arms and kiss him forever. “But I’m exhausted, and even I’m gagging at how I smell. So let’s get comfortable, eat something, and go lie down, all right?”

Sherlock closes his eyes and his tongue darts out over his lips, which curl in a soft smile. “All right,” he says, and his smile looks stronger now, a real smile. He leans forward and quickly presses his mouth to John’s, lingering for a few seconds before pulling back, and John has to exert every ounce of control to stop himself from yanking Sherlock back.

“Yes, you’re allowed to do that now,” John says, answering the silent query in Sherlock’s eyes. “Anytime you want, as much as you want. I won’t put restrictions on you, Sherlock. Not that they’d likely stick. You’d probably flaunt them just because they exist.”

And then Sherlock wraps his arms around John, and this, this is familiar, this, John thinks, is home, and it’s a long time before either of them lets go.

*

“Maybe he’s trying to make up for everything.” John fiddles with the edge of the blanket that’s spread over Sherlock. “Mycroft pulled out all the stops. Private room, private staff. Me on the guest list, no limits on visiting hours. Sherringford is here. So you don’t have to worry about Mycroft making any of your medical decisions.” 

He pulls up a chair and sits, twines his fingers in Sherlock’s. “God, Sherlock. Just, live, okay? I can’t do it again. I can’t lose you again.” He leans forward and presses his cheek against their hands. “Just wake up soon.”

*

“This is your flat?” Sherlock drops his bag by the door and looks around.

John knows it’s not up to the standards that Sherlock’s used to. It’s a grubby flat, situated near St Bart’s and the Barbican rail station, barely a step up from a bedsit, but it has its own w/c and kitchen, and there’s even two bedrooms, although they really are little more than closets. But he’d gotten the place knowing he’d bring Sherlock back here one day, so it had to have another room, no matter how small. “It’s not much, I know, but...” John shrugs.

Sherlock notices the table against one wall of the small lounge; or rather, notices what’s set up on it. “My chemistry set,” he says softly, and turns to John, pulls him close enough to kiss him quickly, then wrap his long arms around him. “It’s brilliant, John.”

John blinks, still trying to get used to this new aspect of their friendship. It still tends to blindside him, the kissing. But he hugs Sherlock back. “Good. I uh, didn’t really know if you wanted it, or what you wanted, really. There’s a bed in your room, and I put up as many shelves as I could. Sherringford was going to bring over your books, but obviously I haven’t been here so I don’t know if he has yet, and --” He trails off as Sherlock rushes down the hall and throws open the three doors in succession as he passes them, until he reaches his room.

Yes, the shelves are filled with books. Which means Sherringford is in London now, John thinks. There’s even an old stuffed camel sat on Sherlock’s bed, and Sherlock grins and tosses it in the air, then sets it on one of the empty shelves. 

“We’ll need more shelves,” he says, coming back out, rubbing his hands. “I’m sure you have room on your walls. And we can put up proper bookcases out here. A desk against that window, I’m sure.”

“It’s not like I’ve had a lot of money to do that,” John points out, but he can’t stop smiling. Sherlock’s already planning, and that means he’s already made himself at home. “And neither do you, now.”

“Oh, bother that,” Sherlock says, as if he doesn’t care that he’s completely cut himself off from all of his family, save for Sherringford. “I’m sure we can find some way.”

John just shakes his head and hefts Sherlock’s bag, as well as his own, and goes to his room to unpack. 

*

Within a week there is a battered old desk against the window, just as Sherlock wanted, and shelves and bookcases taking up every available space. They haven’t been filled yet, but they’re there, ready, just waiting, and that pleases Sherlock to no end. 

John is amazed at how Sherlock manages to talk people into letting him have things in exchange for favours; he gets the desk from a shop down the street for cleaning up their accounting books; the bookcases come from a used book store, dusty and kept in a storage closet, and Sherlock spends barely an afternoon arranging the contents of the bookstore into a workable system so he can have them. The system works, and it keeps Sherlock occupied whilst he waits for his applications to universities to come back. 

Not surprisingly, they all want him. His family name and his academic record, behavioural aspects and time in America aside, are quite tempting. Sherlock goes with the same university that John attends, which is predictable of him, and sweet, and also practical. Queen Mary is one of the best medical universities in London, and their chemistry department is also impressive. John personally wonders how long that will hold Sherlock’s interest. He loves chemistry, yes, and he’s damned good at it. But he’s spent his entire life being told what to do, and John is just waiting for Sherlock to start rebelling against that. 

Sherringford stays for a few weeks, until he’s sure Sherlock is settling in, and John couldn’t be more grateful. Sherlock takes the advice his brother gives, but he refuses his money; John, however, waits until Sherlock’s back is turned, and accepts Sherringford’s monetary help rather gratefully. Sherlock isn’t the one who’s been trying to survive as a medical student on a grant, working as many hours as he can when he isn’t studying. There isn’t any time for sleep. 

To everyone’s surprise, Sherlock comes home one day, two weeks after arriving back in London, saying he has a job. John blinks at him, and he can’t help but notice the way Sherlock’s smile slips a little as the silence draws out.

“Aren’t you pleased?” Sherlock asks, his eyes flicking to the fridge, which is empty, as John well knows. 

“I am so pleased that I don’t know what to do,” John answers truthfully. This restores Sherlock’s mood instantly, and he grabs the phone so he can call his brother to let him know.

It’s at the bookshop he’d helped at the previous week. And Sherlock is dismissive and sometimes rude to the customers but it’s not that he intends to be; he is so excited to be working, to be around something he loves, and to be arranging the purchases of additional stock, that he forgets social graces. 

As the months roll on and Sherlock keeps his job, then starts at the university, John begins to relax, just a bit, and even take a few less hours at work. Sherlock has abandoned his own room to his books, and various other things, and sleeps either on the couch, or with John, or not at all. 

John’s never been more proud of Sherlock, or of himself. 

*

Much as John dislikes Sherlock’s family, he has to admit that he’s still grateful for Mycroft’s pull. He knows there’s no way he’d be in here like this, otherwise. Sherringford is taking a walk through the corridors, unable to sit still any longer.

It’s late, the sky outside black, most of London fast asleep. He’s stood at the window, looking out over the dull glow of what’s left of the city lights, when he hears movement from the bed. He turns, sees Sherlock shift, then wince in pain. 

“John?” he calls out, his voice hoarse and almost too soft to hear. 

John rushes over and leans over Sherlock, lays a gentle hand on him. “I’m here, Sherlock, you’re safe,” he assures him as he does a quick check of his vitals. “You’re at the Royal.”

Sherlock opens his eyes a little, wincing; not from the light, because John has the lights on as dim as they’ll go. He licks his lips and blinks, and John holds up a cup with a straw to his lips. “Drink,” he tells Sherlock, then takes it away when he’s done so.

“You, saved me,” Sherlock manages, his voice slurred and loose.

“Course I did,” John replies, unable to stop smiling from sheer relief. He takes a moment to pull out his phone and text Sherringford, then sets it aside. “You were in surgery for ages, but you always have liked people fussing over you.”

A faint smile touches Sherlock’s lips and he lets his eyes fall closed. “Permanent damage?” he asks.

“None. Apart from several rather impressive new scars.” John looks to the doorway as Sherringford appears there, breathless. “Your brother is here.”

Sherlock frowns and opens his eyes again just as Sherringford reaches his side. The frown smooths away, and Sherringford leans down and presses a soft kiss to his forehead. 

“My dear boy,” he breathes over Sherlock’s skin, his voice wavering. 

“Sherringford,” Sherlock sighs. “Take care of John.”

“Oh, I have been,” Sherringford says. “Without him, who would be there to save you?” He winks at John as he says this, because John knows that Sherringford considers him a brother as well.

“I’d better get the nurse,” John says, and strokes the side of Sherlock’s face, then walks out. 

*

“Sherringford? Oh thank god,” John says when Sherlock’s brother answers the phone. 

“John, what the devil is going on?” Sherringford sounds confused and angry, and John is instantly put on guard by the tone.

“I’m not really sure. Have you heard from Sherlock?”

There’s a long pause, and it’s obvious the phone is being muffled. Then Sherringford comes back on the line and sighs heavily. “I have,” he says. “He’s here.”

John feels so relieved that he sinks to sit on the couch. “I was worried. His clothes are gone, and so is his duffel. I was hoping he’d gone to you.”

“I think you had best tell me what happened,” Sherringford says, his voice so obviously carefully moderated. John’s never heard him speak that way to himself before, and he doesn’t like it.

“Like I said, I’m really not sure. He always comes in to the lab when I’m working on things but... I don’t know. He was, antsy. Couldn’t keep still at all. I thought he’d taken something, at first, but I don’t think he had. He kept wanting me to go do things, to stop studying, right that moment, and entertain him, but I couldn’t. I’m almost done, Sherringford, I can’t just skive off now. I’m working on becoming a surgeon.”

“No,” Sherringford agrees with another sigh. “Of course not, John, I agree with that.” At least he doesn’t sound so detached , John thinks. He’s only heard Sherringford use that voice with the rest of his family, and John feels chills that he may have, however momentarily, been lumped in with them.

“I yelled. I did proper yell at him, Sherringford. I called him selfish, and a child.” He’s wincing just repeating it. He hates that he called Sherlock those things, even if he did mean them at the time. “I told him to leave me alone so I could get my work done.”

“And so he did. By coming here.”

John doesn’t think he’s heard anyone sigh quite so much in so short a time. “Tell that git to get on the next plane, or ferry, or bus even, back here,” he says. “He’s in the middle of his own studies. He can’t just drop out now.” 

Sherringford is silent for another few moments. “He says that he has already withdrawn from all classes,” he finally says, anger heavy in his voice. “And that he refuses to return.”

“You’re kidding me, right?” John asks, incredulously. 

“I’m afraid not,” Sherringford says. “I think he’s telling the truth about withdrawing. As for not returning, well, we shall see.”

“Oh, jesus,” John mutters. “Will he talk to me?”

“He has just left, saying that he will never speak to you again.” Sherringford sounds confused again, and still so very angry. 

“He, he just needs time to calm down,” John decides, trying to hold off panic at the very thought of never being able to speak to Sherlock again. “I’ll call back in a few days. Sherringford--”

“You did nothing wrong,” Sherringford interrupts. “John, my dear, you’ve only ever been a friend to him. But for now we can simply wait, and hope that this blows over. Do keep in touch with me. Write to him. I shall let you know if he is no longer staying with me. Likely he will be back in London, with you, before the end of the month. We will think of repairing his academic record at that time.”

“Okay. Thank you. I can’t ever say it enough.”

“And you know my response to that, dear boy. I shall speak to you soon.”

John hangs up and sits back on the couch, rubs his face. It was going to be a long couple of weeks.

*

Sherlock doesn’t return to London, and he doesn’t speak to John at all. 

When John finally finishes his degree, a year later, he packs up the flat and puts everything in storage - a separate one for Sherlock, so Sherringford can come and pick up everything - and he signs on to join the Army, and he doesn’t look back. 

*

“The nurse tells me you aren’t taking your pain medications when you should be.” John sets his bag on the foot of Sherlock’s bed and takes the chart, looks it over.

“I take them when I need them,” Sherlock returns sharply, narrowing his eyes at John.

“You take them when you’re in pain. If you took them on schedule then you wouldn’t be in pain.” John puts the chart back and moves to Sherlock’s side to check his vitals, then do a quick examination of his bandages, finding spots of blood on the bandage along his left side. “You’ve been up and moving too much?” he asks. “You need to stay in bed and let these start healing, at the very least. If you keep straining the stitches...”

“Yes, thank you Doctor, I’m well aware of that,” Sherlock snaps, and John can’t help but smile at him, which just makes him frown more. 

“I get, twitchy,” Sherlock says after a long silence, his voice pitched low and soft. “I don’t know how much Sherringford told you of what I did when we, when we were parted.” He slants his eyes away from John. _After I’d run away from you_ , that look says, but John lets it pass. 

“He didn’t tell me much,” John says. “I didn’t want to know details. He did say you weren’t doing well, for a long time.”

“An understatement,” Sherlock confirms. “I managed to addict myself to cocaine, John. Sometimes heroin, or morphine. Sometimes just anything I could inject or swallow.” His eyes go to the bandage wrapped around half his left arm. “I watched when the nurse changed that bandage. The new scar will hide the old ones rather well.”

John nods, not at all surprised. He’s a doctor, after all, and he’s noticed the scars on Sherlock’s arms, as well as a few other places, and he’s noticed the moods, the way he gets so wound up and tetchy, as if he’s still craving that fix, and fighting it. “I suspected,” he says. “There are things I’ve noticed, after all.”

Sherlock blows out a noisy breath and relaxes. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I’m clean, John. I’ve had so many tests done, and even as a junkie I was painfully careful. It’s been years, and still nothing.”

“Yeah, you did see me reading your chart, right?” John raises his eyebrows at Sherlock. “So you don’t want to take your pain meds because of previous addiction, I get that, but you aren’t going to be able to sit still and heal if you don’t. And I’m here now, proper doctor and all. I’ll help you through it if it becomes a problem, right?” He takes the little paper cup from off the dresser and hands it to Sherlock, along with his water. “So take your medicine like a good boy, and then I’ll read you to sleep.”

Sherlock eyes him cautiously, then knocks back the pills and swallows them quickly, opens his mouth for John to check. John leans over and kisses him softly on the mouth, then the forehead, and strokes his hair back. 

“Didn’t bring my book of bedtime stories,” he says with a soft laugh. 

“Have my brother bring it up with him,” Sherlock returns, smiling. “I want my story, John.”

Laughing harder now, John nods and takes out his mobile, texts the message to Sherringford, and sits on the edge of the bed. “You’ll see, Sherlock, we’ll get through this, no problems. We survived ten years apart, barely but still, and we can weather narcotic medications and a few cuts and bruises.”

“My lung is stitched together,” Sherlock points out with a scowl. “I hardly call that a small matter.”

“Eh, try getting shot in the shoulder and bleeding out in a desert sometime,” John returns. “Go on, I know that look. Meds are starting to work. Get some sleep.”

Sherlock reaches out and rests his hand on John’s leg, and lets his eyes close. “Sing me a lullaby,” he requests, and for a few moments, John thinks he’s teasing. Then he sees the tenseness around Sherlock’s mouth and eyes, and it’s not from the pain. 

So he glances around and checks to make sure they’re alone, and clears his throat, and sings to Sherlock softly, until he falls asleep.

*

“It’s great to have you back here,” Mike says, leading John from the elevator, into the corridor. “They’re lucky sods, down in A&E, getting you.”

“Yeah, well, it’s about all I’m good for right now,” John says. 

“If you’re good enough for A&E here, you can get a job almost anywhere,” Mike returns. “I’m glad you made it back, John. It’s good to see you again.”

“Thanks,” John says. 

And he means it, but he doesn’t much care, at the same time. Because it’s painful, really painful, being back in London at all, and being back here, specifically. He can remember how different everything looked when he was still young, still learning, when Sherlock used to sneak in to the labs just to sit with him, and sometimes help, but more often than not pester him until John gave up trying to get anything done, and they went to do something else.

Well, until things had begun to fall apart between them. Until Sherlock had become increasingly restless and bored by his classes, until John had yelled bloody murder at him when Sherlock wouldn’t let him study because he was _BORED, John, I’m so bloody bored!_ . 

He clenches his jaw against the memories, and gives Mike a strained smile. He’s not going to think about that, how nothing has seemed right since then. Sherlock had left then, gone away, and after finishing his degree John had joined the army just to get away from everything, from London, from medicine, and from whatever lingered of Sherlock. 

He’s still occasionally in touch with Sherringford, but the older man has quite the task, trying to remain a brother to them both, and neutral in this issue. 

“You all right, mate?” Mike asks, coming to a stop outside one of the lab doors; the lab John’s been told that he can use if he needs to do his own work.

“Yes, it’s just been a long day,” John says. “Come on, let’s get this over with so we can go have a pint.”

“Best idea I’ve heard all day,” Mike says and pushes open the door. 

John follows him in, makes some inane comment about how they’ve changed everything. He doesn’t even recognise half this equipment. He’s going to have to bribe one of the younger doctors here to get him up to... 

His thoughts trail off as his gaze falls on a person at the back of the small lab, bent over one of the high tech microscopes. He blinks several times because there is no way, just no way, that that could be who he thinks it is.

“Oh hallo, Sherlock,” Mike greets. “Didn’t know you were up here.”

Sherlock, oh god, it really is Sherlock, and he doesn’t even look up. “Stamford,” he returns, adjusting a dial. “And who are you showing around today?”

“Old friend of mine, we met when he was looking into becoming a surgeon,” Mike answers. “He’s starting here.”

And John is rooted to his spot by the door, watching as Sherlock’s head snaps up, his eyes going wide with shock. 

“John,” he breathes, staring openly. 

“Sherlock,” John returns, not knowing what else to say. Because Sherlock is there, right there, as beautiful and lean and real as he ever had been, and John only wants to pull him close and hold on to him forever. He feels his throat closing up from the well of long-hidden affection, the past grief of losing the only real friend he’d ever had, and he looks away, coughs to clear his throat.

“You know each other?” Mike asks, confusion evident in his voice. 

“Yes,” John answers when it’s apparent that Sherlock isn’t going to. It’s obvious, after all, as neither of them are bothering to hide their shock at seeing each other. “We uh, we do. We grew up together.”

“Oh, right!” Mike grins then, seemingly oblivious to the tension. John knows him better than that, knows he’s just blustering his way through. “That’s good, then! Sherlock’s up here all the time, John. Running experiments, or whatever. Don’t know where the devil he gets permission from, but there you go.”

John takes a deep breath and looks up, meeting Sherlock’s eyes, and it’s like all those years apart drop away, all that anger and hurt, gone. He’s held this man in his arms, and he’s kissed those lips, and he’s laughed himself sick next to him, and cried with him. Maybe, just maybe this is their chance to fix whatever it was that went wrong. 

“I missed you,” John says, and hears Sherlock suck in a quick breath. “It’s good to see you.”

“John,” Sherlock says again, and it loosens everything in John’s chest, hearing his name like that. Sherlock doesn’t have to say anything else, it’s all implied in his tone of voice. 

John nods and smiles, and means it this time. Strange how it can all be set aside. How he feels lighter for it. “Look, I’ve got to finish this up,” he says to Sherlock.

“Yes, and I can’t finish this experiment yet,” he agrees. “Give me your phone.” He holds out a hand, wiggles his long fingers. 

John takes his mobile out and crosses the lab, hands it over to Sherlock, deliberately brushing their fingers as he does so. Sherlock pauses, then allows a faint smile, and enters in his contact information on the phone, then calls his own phone to send the number along. 

“I’ll call you later,” Sherlock says, handing the phone back, turning back to the microscope and his petri dish of what looks like blood, waving a hand to dismiss them.

John goes back to Mike, who takes him out of the room, and he barely hears anything else that’s said during the tour.

*

Now that he’s recovered some from the shock of seeing Sherlock again, so suddenly after 10 years, well, John’s more than a bit irritated. Not enough that he’ll call off getting together with Sherlock, but enough that he may just have to raise his voice when they do see each other again.

He’s not the one who had a snit and went away, who moved out of their flat in a righteous huff and never wrote back, who did everything to block out his only friend. He’d just wanted a little understanding, some space to finish his studies. He wasn’t bored by his classes, even if Sherlock was. It wasn’t his fault that he’d been dedicated to doing well. He’d done everything he could for Sherlock, and Sherlock, he just wanted more. He wanted everything. Just like he always had. But he couldn’t seem to give the one little thing that John had needed: the peace to study, and to do well.

It’s boiling inside him, just waiting for an outlet, when a sleek black car pulls up outside the hospital as John leaves it. A woman steps out, dressed in a dark, simple suit that John can tell costs more than he’d make in six months. She smiles at him, bland smile and blank eyes, and gestures inside the car.

John quirks an eyebrow at her and she tilts her head to the side, smile fixed in place. So yes, definitely for him. He rubs his forehead and steps toward her. Just as he’s about to speak another figure leans into the open area of the door, and that face John recognises, even though it’s been twenty years since he’s seen it.

“Mycroft,” he says darkly and stops in his steps. 

“Yes, quite,” Mycroft says with a faint smile. “If you would join me?”

John considers refusing, but he recalls the brief mentions in the past from Sherlock about how his brother had gone to work for the government; and if Mycroft is at all like either of his brothers, it’s very likely he runs the government now. 

“I see you understand perfectly,” Mycroft says, his smile turning triumphant for just a moment before settling back into faintness. “I don’t actually have all night to sit here, Doctor Watson, so if you would join me?”

John would like to draw this out, just to waste Mycroft’s time; he’s never liked him, never liked his casual disregard of his younger brother. But John’s already texted Sherlock back to say he’ll meet him in half an hour - less now - so he sighs and walks over, leaning heavily on his cane, and gets into the car a little awkwardly. 

The woman shuts the door after him, and John hears the front door shut a moment later, and then they begin to drive.

“What do you want, Mycroft?” John asks directly, not in the mood to hear anything he has to say.

“It’s good to see you, John,” Mycroft says, ignoring the question. “I imagine Sherlock was rather taken aback to see you earlier. As you were to see him.”

John holds his silence and simply stares at Mycroft. That’s all obvious. He sees no reason to respond.

“Yes,” Mycroft agrees with a thin smile, his hands resting on the end of his umbrella. “I trust our older brother has not yet been in contact with you? He won’t have heard of your return to London yet, unless Sherlock telephoned him as soon as he returned home.” There’s a buzz, and Mycroft reaches into his pocket and takes out his mobile, and nods. “Indeed. He has not. So let me be the one in our family to welcome you back to England, Captain, and to London.”

He pauses, and John still doesn’t speak. He has nothing to say to Mycroft. He never has. He wonders why Mycroft thinks that has changed.

And then Mycroft laughs, an entirely unpleasant sound. “Precisely, Doctor Watson,” he says with genuine good humour, which vanishes suddenly and completely. “If you cannot devote yourself to Sherlock, I would advise you to exit this car and leave London immediately,” he says. “He will not be able to survive losing you again.”

John feels those words. They strike him in the chest like a hammer blow. Like a sniper’s bullet. His whole left arm twitches, suddenly, at that sense memory.

“Oh, that will be the least of it,” Mycroft promises. His eyes glitter in the darkness of the car. “I may not be as affectionate as my brothers, and I may not in any way be overt in expressing what affections I do have, Doctor Watson. But I will not see my brother destroyed again. I let it happen twice before. I now have the means to prevent it ever happening again, and I shall do so.”

Of that, John has no doubt. But he knows one thing: If Sherlock can’t survive losing him again, he can’t survive losing Sherlock again. He can’t get out of this car now and walk away. It’s physically impossible, or would be even if he had any intention of making the attempt.

Mycroft sits back in the car, his thin smile coming back, and John feels like he’s just survived some sort of test, or like he’s just swum out into the ocean, met a shark, and been left to go on his way. It’s disorienting, and he can’t wait to get out of this car. 

“I see we understand each other, then,” Mycroft says, and the car pulls to a stop. “Here we are. This is your destination, is it not?”

The door is pulled open by the woman, and John looks out. Baker Street, yes. 221, right there. He sees the curtain in the upper window twitch. He gets out, which is again awkward with his cane, and he doesn’t reply to anything Mycroft has had to say. He just walks away and doesn’t look back. He hears a soft laugh, the sound of a door shutting, and the car driving away. 

He doesn’t even have time to knock before the door to 221 is wrenched open, and Sherlock is stood there, looking furious. He glances down the street, then turns to the CCTV camera mounted on a nearby lamp post, flips it off, and turns and storms back inside. 

John lets out a breath and follows Sherlock in, shutting the door behind him. 

“Up here,” Sherlock says, taking the staircase two stairs at a time. 

John takes them more slowly, meeting Sherlock at the top of the stairs, and follows into a lounge. “Nice place,” he says, frowning slightly at the mess. “I see you’ve developed some housekeeping skills since we lived together.” Which is a joke. Sherlock has never had much of an idea on how to keep anything organised in a way any other human can recognise. 

Sherlock twitches, straightens out of his slouch. He still wears trousers and button ups, John notices. Lifetime habit. Some things never do change. 

“And you still wear those horrific jumpers,” Sherlock comments airily. 

John’s long since learned not to ask where Sherlock managed to acquire his telepathy. But sometimes he wishes it would just go away.

“I can’t stop noticing things, John,” Sherlock says with raised eyebrows. “I saw you looking over my clothes. Which do not differ much at all from what I used to wear. Your train of thought was pathetically easy to deduce. Hence my comment on your attire not having changed much, either.”

John nods and looks around, decides to sit in one of the chairs by the fire. He eases himself down into it without bothering to ask for permission. “You’ve also managed to find yourself some manners,” he says to Sherlock, and looks up at him. He’s feeling his way, trying to figure out the tone of this meeting. 

Sherlock frowns and slides his hands into his pockets. “Have I?” he asks, truly surprised by the comment.

John laughs and shakes his head. “No, you twat,” he says, and his anger is gone again; not suppressed, just gone, and he feels giddy. “Sherlock, make me a cuppa, alright? I’ve been at that damned hospital all day for orientation and I’ve filled in enough paperwork to make a forest cry. I really would like a cup of tea.”

“Oh. Yes.” Sherlock hurries into the kitchen and John tries to relax, listening to the sounds of running water, the kettle, the clink of metal on china. 

A few minutes pass, and then Sherlock hands him a mug and sits in the other chair with his own mug. He stares at John in silence, sipping his tea.

“Sherlock, I need to say this to you,” John finally says, leaning forward. He’s not angry anymore, no, and that’s the best time for him to get this off his chest. Maybe this time he can say it without alienating Sherlock. “And you need to not interrupt, and really listen.”

Sherlock sits up at attention, his eyes glittering in the same way Mycroft’s had. He nods curtly, and John sighs at that. It will make it easier.

“You were a shit to me in university,” John starts. “You wouldn’t let me study, you wouldn’t let me work on assignments. I did what I had to do to finish. You took that personally, and I am so sorry, because it never changed how I felt about you. How I feel about you.” He looks down into his tea and sighs, then looks back up. “You will always be my friend, and my brother. And I will always love you, and I will always be here for you, alright? But you have to let me do my own thing as well. I am going to work at Bart’s, and you are going to let me. Is that clear? Because if you can’t let me, then I can’t stay in London.”

“Mycroft put you up to this,” Sherlock states, as if he doesn’t care.

“Oh, Sherlock. You great tit,” John says fondly. He’s far too old to be putting up with this kind of childish behaviour. “No. He expressed his concern for you. And I’m telling you my concerns. I don’t feel... Nothing feels right anymore, Sherlock. Without you. I still turn to tell you things, or expect to see you there at my side, or waiting up for me in my bed because you want a kiss before you go to sleep. That’s why I went to the Army, Sherlock. Because nothing else would take me far enough away. And if I couldn’t have you at my side, I had to go as far away as I could.”

“And was it far enough?” Sherlock asks after a lengthy pause.

“Nowhere can ever be far enough,” John says easily, and it’s the truth. “And nothing can heal the gaping hole where you should be.”

And at that Sherlock puts aside his mug and kneels in front of John, burying his face in John’s knees. John gasps at the suddenness of it, and he can’t help but push his hand into Sherlock’s hair and bend down to rest his cheek on Sherlock’s head. 

“You always say what I mean to say,” Sherlock says, his voice a rumble against John’s knees. “I never know how to tell you. Everything I say is wrong, and it drove you away, and I’ll just do it again, John. I can’t help it. I make everyone hate me, and you will as well.”

“Never, never, never,” John chants into Sherlock’s hair. “You tell me now, Sherlock. Do you want me to stay?”

“Forever,” Sherlock confesses. “I can’t let you leave. Never leave me, John.”

“I never left you,” John says, and presses kisses to Sherlock’s hair. “Remember? I promised, didn’t I? Even if we’re apart, I’ll never leave you. And if you really want me to stay forever, there’s nothing you’ll do that will make me go away. You’ll have to go, because I won’t.”

Eventually Sherlock lifts his head, and John takes the opportunity to stand, and pull Sherlock to his feet. “Come on. I’m exhausted,” John says. 

“Oh. Yes. I’ll, call you a cab to take you home,” Sherlock says, looking away, anywhere but at John.

“I can call my own cab, ta,” John shoots back. “And I will, tomorrow. But tonight I’m staying here. So let’s go lay down, and we’ll have a cuddle, and go to sleep. Or you can pace out here, and I can go lay down in your bed and go to sleep. Your choice.”

Sherlock’s eyes snap to John, and it’s disconcerting, seeing that intense gaze directed at him again after all these years. He stands there, leaning on his cane, waiting.

“No one has ever been in my room,” Sherlock says slowly. “Not since I moved here.”

“And?” John prompts, raising his eyebrows. 

Sherlock frowns, as if he had a point and has forgotten it now. He opens his mouth to speak, shuts it, and walks past John, through the kitchen, to his bedroom.

John allows a smile, which he pushes away before he heads after Sherlock. He knows they’ll both have changed so much in the past 10 years because that’s what life does to people; but he’s counting on there being a few things about both of them that will never change. He loves Sherlock with everything he has. He’s sure that Sherlock felt the same once, and maybe he’s convinced himself now that he doesn’t care, but John knows that Sherlock will never be able to fully rid himself of that. And John is going to cling to whatever is left of that emotion, for as long as he can.

He leans his cane against the wall and shucks off his jacket, tosses it on a chair, followed by his jumper. He slips the buttons out of his shirt, and watches Sherlock pace nervously, pushing a hand through his hair. By the time John has his button up off and is sitting to take off his shoes, Sherlock seems to have made his peace with whatever is agitating him, and begins to discard his own clothing, setting it neatly aside. 

John smiles, ducking his head. If there’s one thing he’s always been able to say about Sherlock, it’s how much he craves physical touch, something he’d never really had until he’d met John.

Once down to his undershirt and briefs, John limps over to the bed and pulls back the covers. He can feel Sherlock staring at him, at the thick scars on his thigh, the dots of scars along his arms and his other leg. Just another testament of war, that’s me, John thinks, and climbs into the bed. 

It only takes a few seconds for Sherlock to scramble in next to him, to plaster himself against John’s side, long limbs wrapping around John. 

“I’ve always loved your body,” Sherlock confides into John’s chest. “It isn’t anything like mine. You are so solid, John, so real.”

John wraps one arm under Sherlock, the other stroking his hair. “That’s me, dependable old Watson,” he says softly. 

“You never did leave, did you,” Sherlock says, his voice so soft and wondering.

“Course not,” John replies. “Told you, didn’t I? I promised you.”

“I tried to leave you,” Sherlock admits. “I tried. But I couldn’t, John. I never could.”

“Good,” John says, rather selfishly. He likes that if he’s had to suffer, he hasn’t done it alone. But he’s glad it’s over. The separation, at least. It isn’t going to be easy for them, getting to know each other again, getting back to what they once had, but this time, he thinks, they can make it work. 

*

“Missed the old place, have you?” John asks, helping Sherlock up the stairs to the lounge. 

Sherlock doesn’t answer, a thin film of sweat across his pale face, until they’re up the stairs and he’s reclining on the couch. “I detest all stairs,” he says vehemently. 

John chuckles and takes out a sealed container of food from the fridge, one of several, as well as the many in the freezer, all courtesy of Sherringford’s partner; the two of them had gone back to France the day before, but the flat is spotless now, and they have enough food stored to feed an army. Once again, John decides he loves Sherringford beyond all reason. 

“I’ll fix you something to eat and you can take your meds and get to bed,” John says. “Michel cooked enough food to last us for a year.”

“I do so love his cooking,” Sherlock sighs happily, all grievances against the stairs forgotten. “The first time I visited Sherringford, Michel made me chocolate torte. His is still the only one I shall ever eat.”

“Hmmm, maybe I’ll let you have a piece of this one he left, after you eat,” John says with a grin, and pops out of the kitchen to see the look of wide eyed greed that he knows will be on Sherlock’s face.

“Give it to me now,” Sherlock demands, trying to sit up.

“Don’t be a stupid git,” John chides, going back in the kitchen. “Stay where you are, and when you’ve eaten this pasta you can have your pudding.”

“Mummy does not approve of pudding,” Sherlock mutters, and John feels a pang of old anger at Sherlock’s family, recalls one of their first conversations. “Do you think this is why Mycroft gorges himself?”

Exhausted and feeling his meds, John decides. No other reason Sherlock would be voluntarily talking about his family. “I imagine so,” he calls back. “Are you going to have two slices, then?”

“With cream,” Sherlock says fiercely, and it makes John laugh so hard that he almost burns the food.

*

John wakes to lips pressed softly against his own, to the unfamiliar sensation of being completely enfolded. It startles him for a few moments, until Sherlock’s face pulls back a bit into focus, speaking softly.

“I couldn’t resist it,” Sherlock says, and his hand is under John’s shirt, curled around his side like he always used to. 

“Don’t bother trying,” John replies without thinking, and won’t ever take it back when it makes Sherlock smile like he does. He curls a hand around the nape of Sherlock’s neck and pulls him back down to kiss him. “Morning.”

“Good morning, John,” Sherlock returns. He slides down a little, pushes John’s shirt up, and rests his cheek on John’s bared chest. 

John tenses when Sherlock’s hand drifts higher, up to his shoulder. He’s about to move, to dislodge him, when Sherlock tuts at him. 

“I noticed it earlier, when you were still asleep,” Sherlock says without lifting his head. “I’ve already looked my fill.”

“Oh.” John doesn’t know what else to say to that so he lets the issue drop, and just wraps the fingers of one hand in Sherlock’s curls. 

They lie like that for long minutes, both perfectly content to never move again, until there’s a faint knock from the downstairs front door. 

“Sherlock, dear, it’s that nice Inspector,” comes a female voice from the stairs, and Sherlock lifts his head and curses.

“How very unimaginative,” John teases, pulling Sherlock’s old taunt out. 

Sherlock falls back to the bed at John’s side, laughing. “Oh, piss off,” he says, and rolls off the bed. “One moment, Lestrade,” he calls to the steps thumping their way to the lounge. He throws on his clothes and strides from the room, and John watches him go. 

“Put on the kettle, you!” he calls after him, hears a few surprised words from Sherlock’s Inspector friend. 

John doesn’t get up until he hears the kettle flick off. He pulls on his jeans and wanders out. Sherlock is sat in the black chair by the fireplace, looking through a file. The Inspector is sat opposite him, tapping his hands on the arms of his chair; he looks up at John with raised eyebrows. 

“Doctor John Watson, DI Lestrade,” Sherlock says absently, eyes fixed to a picture. 

“Alright?” John says to Lestrade. “Tea? Notice Sherlock still doesn’t have any bloody manners.”

“God, I’d love a cuppa,” Lestrade accepts. “One sugar, no milk.”

After a few minutes Sherlock snorts, stuffs everything back in the file, and hands it back. “Her father did it,” he says. “It’s so obvious. Even Anderson should be able to figure it out.”

“Here now, you,” Lestrade begins, but John distracts him with his tea. “Oh, cheers, Doctor.”

“John,” John corrects. 

“Where is my tea?” Sherlock asks, frowning.

“Probably in the kitchen, with the tea you didn’t make your guest,” John returns and takes a sip from his mug. “And I swear to bloody christ, if you try and steal mine I’ll do what I always used to do when you stole my drinks.”

Sherlock’s hand goes unconsciously to his hair, then he scowls and jumps up, and stalks into the kitchen. There’s a cup of tea already made, John isn’t that much of a bastard. He just wanted to make Sherlock get up.

“You’re uh...” Lestrade says to John, and trails off. 

John sits on the couch. “Friends,” he says, and it’s all the explanation he gives. He motions to the file. “He works for you?”

“Work implies they pay me,” Sherlock says, looking mollified as he comes back and takes his seat. 

“If you took more than five minutes, I’d consider it,” Lestrade returns.

“If your officers were more intelligent -- “

Lestrade holds up a hand to stop him. “Doesn’t matter, since I can’t pay you anyway.” He gulps his tea, finishing it. “Her father then?”

“Obvious. You’ll find the boot prints are, in fact, his. He has the same size as her partner. You can tell by the gaps in the bloodstains on the crowbar that someone with large hands, wearing gloves, was holding it. The spatter leaves significant gaps on the handle. Only her father has hands that would be that large.”

“That’s brilliant,” John speaks up, and Sherlock and Lestrade glance over at him.

Lestrade sets his mug down, takes the file, and stands. “Thank you for your time, Sherlock,” he says. “And for the tea, John.” And then he’s hurrying out, down the stairs and out the door.

“So that’s what you do?” John asks. “No science, or chemistry, or grand discoveries like you half thought about? You consult with the Met?”

“Yes, and sometimes private clients,” Sherlock says, standing. “A doctor would be an exceptional asset.”

“And what about just me, then?”

“Invaluable,” Sherlock says with a smile. 

*

John sits quietly on the bench in the back garden, and raises his mug for a sip. It’s perfect, down to the temperature. It always is when Sherlock brings it to him in the mornings. Which is still the only time Sherlock does it, but honestly, it’s the only time John cares. Mornings are difficult now, his leg and arm stiff and aching until he gets moving. 

Sherlock’s made it to the beehives in his bulky suit, at the bottom of the garden. The wildwood extends beyond. The sun is breaking over the trees. 

It’s the same morning as a hundred before. John’s hoping for many hundreds more. Because there almost weren’t any. So many chances for this to not have existed. 

*

In some ways, it’s almost like they’re living back in their first apartment together. John wakes up most mornings with Sherlock curled around him, or spread out over him; the position changes, but what is always constant is them twined together, touching as much as possible. 

Still, something feels different this morning. John lies in bed and stares up at the ceiling. He’s alone in bed, which means Sherlock probably didn’t even come to bed last night. John can’t hear him pacing, or even working on anything. 

He sits up, pushes a hand through his hair. He feels, jittery. Like there’s an itching under his skin. And he needs to see Sherlock. Right now. 

He kicks off the blankets and gets up, doesn’t bother to pull on more clothes than the briefs he’s wearing. He goes into the kitchen, finds a cold cup of tea on the counter, and switches the kettle on. Sherlock is asleep on the couch, but curled up in the foetal position with his blue robe pulled tight around him. Usually Sherlock is stretched out, sprawled over the couch, taking up as much room as possible. 

He is asleep, but his face is creased with a frown, his jaw clenched tight. John reaches out and brushes his fingertips over Sherlock’s forehead, down the lines there, hoping to smooth them away. It doesn’t work, and John frowns, himself, wondering if he should wake Sherlock. 

Instead, he leans down and presses a kiss to the side of his forehead. Despite their kisses that first day, neither of them had dared repeat it. It had seemed too intimate, far too personal for them, just yet. But right now it seems the only possible action to be taken.

John tilts his head, presses his lips to Sherlock’s cheek, and brushes a hand over his hair. It’s just as silky as he remembers it being when they were younger, and he can’t help twisting the curls around his fingers. 

Sherlock stirs under his touch, relaxing a bit, the tightness of his jaw loosening. “John,” he sighs, though still asleep, and John likes that, that Sherlock thinks only of him like this. 

“Shhh,” John says, pressing another kiss, this time to Sherlock’s temple, smoothing his thumb over the frown lines at the same time. The combination works, and Sherlock goes loose, the frown vanishing, his limbs relaxing. His breath evens out, his head turning to press into John’s hand. 

And this is all that has ever seemed right in his life. Being with Sherlock, just the two of them, always together. 

John kneels next to the couch to relieve the strain of bending over. He hears the kettle click off, but he doesn’t move from where he is. He just rubs his fingers against Sherlock’s scalp, shuffles closer so he can rest his other arm around Sherlock’s waist. After a few minutes Sherlock stirs and his breath catches in his chest.

“John?” he questions.

“Yeah,” he answers. And really, who else would it be? Who else would touch Sherlock like this? And whilst he doesn’t like the idea of Sherlock being alone, he hates the idea of anyone else being so intimate with him. 

Sherlock closes one hand over John’s hand on his stomach. “Good,” he sighs. 

“Your tea went cold,” John says, not knowing what else to say, or if he should speak at all.

Sherlock just hums abstractly, as if he’s content to remain where he is, despite a ruined cuppa. After a while longer, his fingers close tightly around John’s hand. “I looked at you in my bed and it scared me,” he finally admits, his voice so quiet that John barely hears him. “It’s not been my bed for months, it’s our bed. And I thought, if you leave I will never be able to sleep in that bed again. And I thought, you’ll leave. You’ll have to. And I, I couldn’t go and lie there, next to you, thinking that.”

“So you curled up out here, miserable and feeling alone? Why didn’t you just wake me up?”

“I’m, not sure. I couldn’t. I couldn’t talk to you about it. I know it’s ridiculous, you’ve already promised you won’t leave, and you’ve always kept your promises, John. But I was terrified.”

“Sherlock, you do many things, daily, that irritate me. But they aren’t going to make me leave. So next time you start thinking things like that, or anything that bothers you, wake me.” John presses another kiss to Sherlock’s temple, feels that slight shiver that goes through Sherlock at the touch. “Look at you. You’re like some swooning Victorian maiden,” he says with a laugh. “Come on back to bed. Neither of us has to be up for anything today.”

John pulls his hands away from Sherlock and leans heavily on the couch as he levers himself back to his feet. Sherlock jumps up, and helps him take a few steps to work out the cramps in his leg before John can walk on his own. He follows Sherlock back into the bedroom and slides back under the covers with relief. It’s a cold morning, and it’s very early, after all. 

Sherlock drops his robe on the floor and gets into the bed, wrapping himself around John. And John sighs, that itch under his skin fading, the jittery feeling gone. He’s like a junkie, he thinks. How he needs Sherlock.

“I love you, you know,” he says to Sherlock, out of the blue. He certainly hadn’t expected to say it.

“Mmm,” Sherlock says, already half asleep again.

John blinks. Realises he does not mean it in the way he’s always meant it. Or, maybe this is the way he’s always meant it, and he just didn’t know it. “Sherlock, I... What I meant is, I love you,” he tries again.

Sherlock goes tense, then looks up. John tilts his head so he can look down, and sees wide eyes. 

“Oh,” Sherlock says, at a loss. He levers himself up on an arm. “Likewise,” he says, clumsy in his surprise. Then he rolls his eyes. “For god’s sake.” 

And John laughs then, and so does Sherlock. He pulls Sherlock down and kisses him, still laughing.

*

“Sherlock!” John calls out, pitching his voice loud enough to be heard. 

Even surrounded by the bees, Sherlock turns and raises a hand to indicate he’s heard. 

John grins. He raises his mug of tea in a salute. “I love you!” he calls down. Because he can. Because he does. He’s old now. He’s allowed to be sentimental and emotional. Fuck it. 

Sherlock hesitates, then touches a gloved hand to where his mouth would be under the mask, a mimed kiss, then turns back to his bees. 

*

“John Clay,” Sherlock says, flicking through the file, tossing it on the table. “I have a lead on his men. But we need to investigate both sites. I can’t get to both. And he’ll pack up and go before I could get to the other.”

“Are you sure that’s safe?” John asks. 

“Well it’s not as if we’ll be seen,” Sherlock points out. “Stay hidden. I just need to know which one he’s working out of, and then we can set up proper surveillance.”

John glances down at the file folder, then up at Sherlock. He takes out a coin. “Flip you for it,” he says, but it’s against his better judgement. He flicks the coin, watches it spin, knows Sherlock is watching like a hawk, for which side will come up.

“Heads,” Sherlock says, just before it lands on John’s palm. “I pick.”

***


End file.
